This Sergei Bogdanovic is not a golf champion but a Russian billionaire who built his immense fortune in the early nineties by dealing in the oil import-export business. After he moved from Moscow to London, the tycoon extended his interests to the world of sport, in particular golf, of which he is a great enthusiast and proud owner of an international circuit of exclusive clubs called Green Star.
The circuit website lists all his golf clubs: Scotland, the Emirates, Singapore, Florida, California, South Africa, Beijing, but there is nothing in Italy and definitely not in Chianti.
I go back to the search results and see the media mostly reports on the parties on his stratospheric yacht in Monte Carlo, complete with superstars landing by helicopter.
TheNastasya, baptized with his wife’s name, comes up immediately in an image search.
I click on his wife’s birthday photoshoot and feast my eyes on the parade of glamorous guests toasting on the bridge of the megayacht. While I think about the sidereal distance that divides my world from the one I’m observing, my gaze falls on one of the many photos in which Bogdanovic is shaking hands with guests. There’s one man I recognize, not because he’s a celebrity but because he’s ... Michael!
A strange suspicion is creeping up in my chest, so I continue to scan the results.
On the Saxton & D’Arcy website, Bogdanovic is listed as a client.
A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I start putting it together: all Michael’s questions about the value of the estate, the video call to the Russian this morning on my roof, Michael’s unexpected presence in Belvedere, his golf mogul client ...
What until a moment ago seemed like a far-fetched idea now makes horrific sense.
Without even considering a strategy, I rush to the villa, prepared to drag Michael out of bed if necessary.
When I enter the kitchen, however, I find him sitting at the counter and—God forbid—in deep conversation with my daughter.
“Linda, go back to the annex,” I say, without even looking at her, too busy looking straight through Michael.
“But, Mo—”
“Now.” I cut her off her before she can finish the wordMom. She recognizes my tone, and leaves in a sulk.
“So, Michael, I’m going to ask you one last time: Are you here to convince Carlo to sell Le Giuggiole to Sergei Bogdanovic so he can develop his next golf club?”
“First, lower your voice; second, how dare you eavesdrop on a private conversation?”
“I couldn’t care less about your precious conversations. It’s Renato who evidently heard you talking about it. He just landed on my head, croaking, ‘Golf in Chianti’ and ‘Bogdanovic, Bogdanovic.’ I may not be an Oxford graduate, but I know how to process information.”
“Ah, Renato,” he comments with the tone of someone who has been caught in the act.
“You better watch what you say when he’s around; he repeats everything he hears. So?”
Michael sighs, rubs his face darkened by the shadow of evening stubble, and nods. “That’s right.”
The confirmation stuns me. I don’t know why I was hoping for a no, but I was holding on to the faint hope that I was wrong. “Who are you?” I ask, looking at him in horror.
“I don’t understand the issue. It’s business, not personal.”
“Not personal? Of coursefor youit’s not personal,for youit’s business. Butfor me, my life will be ruined. For me and for my whole family,” I say.
“Forgive me, but your life is not my responsibility, nor is it Bingley’s.” Michael stands up, angry. “He has no clue what to do with the estate, and I, his best friend, intend to help him make the decision that most benefits him. That’s my job; report me!”
“And it seemed appropriate to do it behind our backs? When would you have told us? After the sale went through? Good morning, the estate has been sold, and tomorrow the vineyards will be razed to the ground to make way for a golf course for fat billionaires? Would you please gather your rags and leave the premises?”
“Did you come to talk or to be dramatic? Because in the second case, I’m not interested,” he replies, starting to leave.
“Hey, listen up, Michael. Just because you come here from London dressed as an heir to the throne and waving credit cards around doesn’t mean your time is worth more than mine. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, you have a lot to learn about the value of time.”
“Maybe, but I don’t owe you any explanations,” he cuts me off coldly. “Are you quite finished? I’m here to do my job and to do it well.”
“What if Carlo changed his mind about selling? Maybe he’d like to stay, now that he’s seeing Giada.”
“Then great! But what if Giada has no intention of staying stuck in this godforsaken hellhole, like ...”
